Veronica Mars

Veronica leads Mills through the labyrinthine corridors of the Milliways guest area until, eventually, they reach the right hallway.

"This place can be a bit confusing at times," she offers apologetically. "Things have a tendency to move. But I'm right up here --"

She cuts off, stopping short. This hallway's not empty.

Super.

Veronica stands in the centre of her apartment, examining her surroundings critically.

The whole thing could never have been helped, she supposes. On one hand the entire place has been decorated with all of the style and flair of a very confident eighteen-year-old college freshman; on the other hand the place has been decorated with all of the style and flair of a very confident eighteen-year-old college freshman. There are posters on the walls for God's sake. Veronica is wincing.

It doesn't help that the whole room looks very, well, seven years ago. The carpet and the drapes and the couch with those little wooden legs... Something must be done. And Special Agent Veronica Mars, FBI, is just the one to do it.

Well, maybe she can supervise.

Those couches aren't light.

[After this.]

Moving quickly, Veronica slips into her room, closing the door behind her and locking it. For a moment she stands still, leaning against the wood and catching her breath. Then she reaches a hand back, lifting her blazer, feeling for the weight of -

- the gun.

It's done, then; too late to turn back now. She pulls it from her waistband and throws it into her shoulder bag, marvelling at how nearly it fits between her wallet and mascara. Then she moves about the room, taking things she cannot afford to leave behind: laptop, camera, cell phone charger, shoving them all into a duffel bag.

When Veronica returns to herself this time, she finds herself bent almost double over her desk, nose barely an inch away from a notebook that she has filled with angular black writing. Slow, she straightens her spine, working aching muscles, and unfolds herself from her chair. It's dark out, and there are no lights on in the room - she hits the switch on her lamp and blinks painfully into the overbright glow.

Recovering from this, a number of sensations hit her at once: first, she is tired, a deep in-the-bone weariness that means every movement aches; secondly she is hungry, almost dizzy with it. She splashes some water on her face in the bathroom, then is shocked when she catches her reflection in the mirror. She is pale, lined, her lips cracked.

What have I been doing all this time?

She tries to stay in the shower until she feels warm again, but the hot water runs out first.

Veronica wakes when the sunlight hits her face.

She rolls to the side and slips out of bed, carefully stepping over where Backup is curled up in what has of late become his spot, and makes her way to the bathroom. She starts a shower, as hot as she can manage it without scalding herself, and moves to the sink as the room fills with steam. With practiced movements she brushes her teeth and remembers to floss for once, the action briefly mingling the tastes of mint and blood in her mouth. Then it's into the water, letting her hair become soaked through as she scrubs the skin on her cheeks.

Despite the escaped heat the bathroom air is chilly by contrast, and Veronica hurriedly grabs a towel as she steps out of the shower a minute later. Water droplets pool at her feet as she attempts to wring the moisture from her hair. She steps to the mirror and wipes it with one hand so that she may see herself clearly, and leans in to check her pores. In that moment something black flickers behind her eyes. She steps away, and after a moment goes back out into the hall, making for her bedroom. Class begins in a little over an hour and Veronica needs to read over some notes before she makes her way to campus.

When the door closes behind her Veronica immediately turns back to open it again.

She shouldn't have let it shut, she tells herself, she should have kept it open. She wasn't ready to let go. Doesn't matter about that stupid clock - something would have been done, she shouldn't have left, she should have waited -

But she didn't, and the door, when she opens it, doesn't lead to a bar with a view on the end of the universe: it's just a closet, pure and simple, dirty t-shirts and shoes she hasn't worn in years. She stands there for a long moment, low on options, realizing that she's walked into a cliché.

(This is the first day of the rest of your life.)

No more Lilly, no more cheating death. No more worlds apart from this. Just Welcome to Neptune, enjoy your stay. You can never really leave.

Veronica sits on her bed for a while, watching the stars, and how wrong does it feel that they're so still, so dull. After all the skies she's seen she's almost unaccustomed to the fact that most nights aren't filled with dancing, and in that back here the lifeless black swallows more than its share of the sky.

Keith enters, after some unmeasured stretch of time, and puts a hand on her shoulder.

"Are you okay?"

"Just thinking about Lilly," she says, and it's not entirely a lie.

"Oh," he replies, and touches her cheek. "You're crying."

And so she is. She hadn't noticed.








She doesn't let it get her down, but it's through sheer will: she goes to work, shops for school supplies, makes as complicated a dinner as she can manage with what she's got, doesn't slow down. She does everything she can think of not to dwell on it, and keeps telling herself, this is a normal day, this is how things were before, this is what you're used to. Even then she doesn't really buy it.

Every door lets her down.

It's evening at last - Veronica returning from her weekly chore of taking out the garbage - when she finds one, and almost cries right there in the courtyard. The way the door creaks at her, it seems to say, oh ye of little faith, and then more kindly, you can come back, if you like.

"Thank you," she says, to no one. And without waiting any longer, she steps through.

Whiteness, yellow flowers, the sound of the ocean.

Lilly

( I'm sorry )

Meg

( I'm sorry )

Keith

( I'm sorry )

When she was six her father took her to the sea shore. She'd been there before that, certainly, but that occasion was the earliest she could remember. The sun had been bright and she'd kept pushing her hat off as she splashed in the ocean, and each time Keith had picked it up and told her to put it back on, so she'd be safe. Her mother had spent the day sunbathing, but her father played with her all day. They built suncastles, and eventually he let her bury him in sand up to his neck.
( boom )
The first time she'd had a date with Duncan, her father had called every fifteen minutes or so, just to be sure, until she'd complained "You're embarassing me!" After that, he only called every half-hour.
( Boom )
The night Lilly died, she'd sobbed into his shoulder until dawn. Neither of them got any sleep that night. By the morning Veronica had changed, no longer the same person. But Keith loved her the same.
( BOOM )
Her mom walked out on them. And it hurt. But they had each other. They always had each other.
( BOOM )
Always -




The ocean breathes salt air in her face. It's quiet here, so quiet, without the sounds of her worries or fears. Just the surf.




When she was - young, she can't remember how young - her father would put on puppet shows for her in the backyard. She remembers -

Sunlight, grass, she's small and cross-legged and peering upwards in awe at the tiny theatre. The puppets are socks with buttons on, at best, but he makes them live. They dance and fight and argue, each with different voices, and she laughs, her voice filled with love.

A puppet squeaks his nose and she giggles, but then he folds his arms, and peers at her, confused. "Honey? Do you smell that?"

Of course she smells it. Silly Daddy. "Smells like bacon!"












She starts, shaken awake, back in her bed. "Dad."

He's here, he's here, she just heard his voice, so clearly - "Dad!" The smell of bacon in the air - it wasn't just in her mind, it couldn't have been. She takes off towards the kitchen.

"Dad!"

But it's not. It's Logan at the stove, and he glances up, surprised, and her heart breaks all over again.

Logan steps towards her and folds her into an embrace, but despite how relieved she is to see him it's not the same, not at all. She can feel the tears welling over once more.

"I'm sorry," Logan whispers, comforting, "I'm so sorry..."

"Is that breakfast I smell?"

Veronica stiffens, spins. It's a dream. Another dream. It's not a dream. But it can't possibly be.

It is.

"Dad. DAD!" He's alive. He's really alive. Veronica abandons a dazed Logan in an instant and dashes across the room, hugging her father tighter than she's ever done before. Alive. Alive. "I thought you were dead! God, I love you so much."

She'll never forget to say that again.

He pats her head with his hand and returns the hug, but says, "I don't understand...?"

"Woody's plane," she says, a bit choked on tears that are both mournful and joyful, "Cassidy Casablancas blew it up."

Keith's look is a bit stunned, but he pulls her close nonetheless. "Oh, honey. I wasn't on the plane. Lamb didn't want me with Woody when they met the press, so he had them take me off the plane at the last minute. I rented a car, I drove home."

He gives her a reassuring smile, and wipes some tears away. "I was a bit surprised, to find Logan on the couch. But better than finding him somewhere else, heh, y'know...?"

The front door swings shut, and the two Marses glance up. Logan's gone, and Veronica feels a twinge of guilt. His father's not going to be around when he gets home, and despite the fact that his father is Aaron Echolls, that can't be easy to get used to. She'll be sure to call him later, make sure he's okay.

Meanwhile, Keith asks, "So what were you saying about the Casablancas boy?"

Veronica sighs. It's going to be a long story.

Elsewhere, right now, there's a party. Veronica knows that most of her classmates headed over right away - Mac's there, Logan, Gia, Dick - and she'll join them eventually. But for now, she's at home, taking one more opportunity to pour over the Junior Sharks team photos.

One of these boys is the third victim, edited out of the audio tape that had been sent to Woody Goodman. He's the third one who was molested. And unlike the other two, he's still alive. He's a witness, a clue. With his help, there will be evidence enough to put Woody away for murder.

But Veronica has to find him, first.

When the phone rings, she already knows who's calling.

"You caught him."

One left.

Veronia is kicking herself for not thinking of this earlier. What are the things that Woody Goodman is known for? Owning the Sharks. Being the "mayor of Neptune". And owning a chain of vanity hamburger joints.

She remembers coming here years and years ago, bouncing in the back seat of their car as her dad asked her, "Where should we go for lunch?" It's still that kind of place: bright primary colours and a goofy cartoon mascot. The specific joint Veronica enters doesn't have a ball pit, but one would fit right in.

Of course nowadays, Veronica muses, I'd rather be - heh - strapped down to an anthill than be seen in one of these places. But hey, desperate times...

The photographs are on display to the right of the counter, lined up behind trophies the teams have won. As a sponsorship note, a point of pride, all of the Little League Sharks teams for the past fifteen years or so are up there, grinning down. It doesn't take her long to find the appropriate year.

And there he is, the missing kid: she taps him with a finger then follows the photograph down, taking in the caption.

Front Row (L to R): Derek Applegate

And that's it. Veronica takes a small, grim sigh - it's over. It's just begun.

"Derek Applegate. Who are you, and where do you live...?"

All that's left is to find him, and to --

No. Veronia looks again at the photograph, the caption. She leans closer, frowning, seeing one last line.

Not Pictured:

She'd been barking up the wrong tree. If there were boys who weren't in the photo at all, then there was no way that she ever could have used that alone to...

Not Pictured:

No.




Cassidy Casablancas.




No.








The bright colours of the restaurant go into a spin, and Veronica feels like she's falling --

And suddenly it all --

I never touched
woody needs to pay for what he
she's a golddigger
there was a bomb on the
you're already
i have what?
rented a room at the
detonated by
had to be close enough to
meg -
mac -
close your eyes and think of england.

-- Makes sense.




"Oh, God."





Veronica throws up.

"We find the defendant... not guilty."

---

The reporters, the fans, are all lined up before the courthouse. Cameras flash. Voices cheer, scream. Aaron Echolls makes his way down the courthouse stairs - he's smiling, waving, always the celebrity.

So this is how it is. The innocent suffer, the guilty go free, and truth and fiction are pretty much interchangable.

They ask him questions and he answers with sincerity - almost too much of it. For Veronica, who knows the truth, the words are smug and boastful.

Her fingernails dig in to the crook of her elbow as she stands in the crowd, arms crossed, and she makes an effort to fight back the bile.

There is neither a Santa Claus, nor an Easter Bunny. And there are no angels watching over us. Things just happen for no reason.

Her dad touches her, gently, but it's a fight not to snap at him. She has to snap at something.

"Hey," he says.

They leave.

And nothing makes any sense.

---

The newspaper headline reads Echolls Acquitted and the accompanying picture shows Aaron, smiling, waving in front of the courthouse.

Veronica wants to burn it.

"Hey." Keith grabs away the paper. "We will not do this. You can't let this stick in your head, however wrong it turned out. We're people with lives and we will not obsess. We move on." He sighs, and folds the paper, looking grave. "Aaron Echolls will get justice in his own way."

"You really believe that?" she asks, disbelieving.

His answer is immediate. "Yes. Now... come on, look alive." Because it's the Mars way to joke, too soon, he adds, "We have a business to run here," before retreating to his office.

But that doesn't stop Veronica from sulking until the fax machine rings to life. She checks the message, and shakes her head, calling in to her father. "What happened to moving on?"

He glances up.

"Posted today. Meg's dad, offering twenty grand for the capture of Woody Goodman."

"Well." He takes the fax, and glances it over only briefly before handing it back. "I'm sure someone will get him."

Veronica stares at him, boggled. This is Woody Gooman. He molested his little league team. He blew up a bus full of kids. "Didn't you say something about, 'We have a business to run'? Shouldn't you be out hunting him down, like the dog he is?"

"Yeah, but I also said something about us being people with lives. See, I have this kid..."

Veronica rolls her eyes, but Keith continues, unperturbed:

"... she's graduating from high school, I don't want to miss it..." He grins.
"Guess I'm just sentimental."

Veronica gives him one last flat look. "Sure. Right. Well, I'm going to work. You know... at my job? You might want to try that, sometime."

Keith chuckles until she's left the office, then casually reaches over and fishes the newspaper out of the trash bin.